Our Lady of the Snow

by Louise Cooper

  Beck had had too many dealings and clashes with the whole coterie of Exalted Fathers to be intimidated, and she only smiled thinly. “I shall await your word, Father.”

  ****

  Three more days passed before the word came. When it did, Grand Mother Beck sent a brief message to Marine, to the effect that she was to bring Nanta to Beck’s office promptly at the first evening hour.

  Marine received the summons with a feeling of overwhelming relief. It seemed she was to be spared the task of revealing the situation to Nanta and coping with the flood of questions and worse that would inevitably follow. She had been observing her charge very carefully over the past few days, and had come to the conclusion that she would not react to the news with the wholehearted joy that might be expected. Unlike most girls of her age and station, Nanta was not ambitious. Her only real aspiration, as far as Marine could tell, was—or had been—to become a soloist in the Academy choir. Given that, and the girl’s quiet piety, which had unexpectedly impressed Marine, she would have been an excellent candidate for the life of a religious. It was, Marine thought, a regrettable waste.

  However, it not was the place of a mere High Sister to question or even comment on court politics, so Marine set her thoughts aside and went to Nanta’s room. Nanta was alarmed to learn that she was to be brought before Mother Beck, and Marine’s brisk assurance that there was nothing to fear made little difference. Nanta tried to ask questions, but her timidity, and the fact that Marine seemed concerned only with trivialities such as what she should wear and how she must conduct herself, squashed her efforts. Marine went away with a few last exhortations about protocol and decorum, and Nanta was left alone to cope with her thoughts as best she could.

  She started to move towards the window, then abruptly changed her mind and instead sat down on the bed. She felt queasy with nervousness that bordered on outright fear. It seemed that she was at last about to learn what really lay behind the sudden and confounding change in her circumstances, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not imagine what the truth might possibly be. All she did know was that Grand Mother Beck never did anything without a very good reason. And anything in which she was concerned would not be a minor matter.

  Nanta shut her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her temples, feeling the uneven throb of her pulse under the skin. Yet again she told herself that there could be no possible connection with her dreams. She had walked in her sleep on two nights out of the last three, but on both occasions she had woken before leaving her room: once to find herself standing at the window and gripping the curtains, the other when she attempted to walk through a solid wall where her dysfunctioning mind told her a door should have been. She had cried out that time, but no one had come to investigate. No one knew.

  She opened her eyes again, let her hands drop to her lap and calmed herself with several deep, controlled breaths. Better. She would bathe, change every stitch of her clothes. Wear an un-elaborate gown, Sister Marine had said. Marine would help her to dress her hair. No jewelry; save perhaps for something inconspicuous at her throat, a small jet choker or some such. Modesty. Decorum. To meet Grand Mother Beck’s exacting standards.

  Suddenly the nausea became real, rising in her gorge like a wellspring. Nanta stood up and swallowed, hard. It didn’t help. She walked quickly and a little unsteadily to the bathing room, where she was dizzily sick into a polished bronze basin. When the spasm was over she stayed motionless for a while, staring at the wall but seeing nothing. Then, quietly, she straightened, cleared away the mess, and rang for a servant to bring hot water and prepare her bath.

  ****

  She fainted when they told her. Father Urss, whose presence at the interview had already horrified Nanta and intimidated Marine, was not amused, but Grand Mother Beck had half expected it. Shock and excitement were a powerful brew. Beck had little regard for the foibles of modem girls, who in her opinion lacked the backbone of her own generation, but under the circumstances the lapse was forgivable. There was a brief business with some smelling salts, and as soon as Nanta was coherent again, Father Urss continued as though nothing had happened. He spoke of the extraordinary honor that had been bestowed on Nanta; he trusted, he said, that she was wise enough and humble enough to give heartfelt thanks to the God for the blessing which he, in his infinite wisdom, had granted. He also trusted (this in a tone that made the price of disobedience abundantly clear) that she would apply herself diligently, and with the modesty and compliance properly instilled into her by her schooling, to the role and the duties of her new station.

  Nanta listened to Urss’ homily with bemusement, returning a glazed stare that gave her the air of a hypnotized rabbit. Now and again the muscles in her throat worked violently, but she said nothing, made no show of delight or dismay or any other reaction whatever. She nodded when she was expected to nod, shook her head on cue, and when a document was put in front of her she made no attempt to read it but signed her name with a quick, jerky movement as though her hand were being guided by an outside force.

  In what seemed a very short space of time the formalities were done. Father Urss turned to Beck and said something about the public announcement of the betrothal, which would apparently take place tomorrow morning; then he stood up, gave Nanta one last, impersonal look as though he were assessing the worth of a piece of furniture, and with a general nod to the three women, left the room.

  Marine felt a little of the tension ebb from her shoulders, and Beck sat back in her upholstered chair. “Well, Nanta.” She eyed the frozen girl in much the same way as Urss had done. “Have you nothing to say?”

  Nanta knew she must reply, but no words she could think of seemed adequate or even relevant. “No, Grand Mother,” she” whispered. Then something came to her; trivial in the extreme but, illogically, it mattered. “Except…”

  “Yes?”

  “My mother and father…Do they—have they been told?”

  “Not yet,” Beck replied.

  “Then may I—may I write a letter to them? I want, you see, I need so much to ask them…”

  Her voice tailed off under Beck’s keen scrutiny.

  “To ask them what, child?” Beck said. “I hardly think that their permission will be lacking, and if there are any womanly questions you want to confide to your mother, Sister Marine or I can answer them as easily.” She smiled a hard, arid smile. “I don’t think it is appropriate for you to write to your parents at present. They will be told of your good fortune through official channels, as is proper, and you may apply your time and energy to your own immediate concerns. Which, I might add, will be quite enough to occupy you from now on.”

  Nanta’s head drooped a little. “Yes, Grand Mother.”

  “Well. Do you have any other questions you wish to ask me?”

  She did, but the refusal of her first request had intimidated her beyond the point where she could voice them. “No, Grand Mother,” she said.

  “Good. Then I think we’re done for the time being. There are one or two more formalities to be seen to, but they are minor and won’t hold up preparations for the wedding ceremony.” She consulted a small gold-edged book. “You’re to begin an intensive period of instruction in court etiquette tomorrow morning, and be taken to the senior imperial dresser in the afternoon. Father Urss wishes you to make your first public appearance as the Bride-Prospective in four days” time.”

  “Four days?” Nanta stared at her in dismay. “But—”

  Beck interrupted. “There’s ample time to prepare. You will be carefully rehearsed, and provided you pay attention there’ll be nothing to fear. You must get used to such things, Nanta. You’re no longer a private citizen; you have new obligations and must fulfill them readily and with dignity.” She laid her hands on the desk, a gesture Marine recognized as a signal that the interview was over. The Sister rose, touching her charge’s shoulder.

  “Come, Nanta. Grand Mother has a lot to do, and we mustn’t take up more of her time than nece
ssary.”

  “Have a sound night’s sleep,” Beck said, as though Nanta would find that the easiest thing in the world, “and be refreshed and ready when the First Obligation chimes ring. I will have reports of your progress from Marine, and will speak with you again in a day or so.” She smiled again, an attempt this time to seem pleasant and reassuring, which did not quite work, and her fingers formed a sign of blessing. “The Lady go with you.”

  Marine said nothing as she and Nanta walked back towards the suite. Nanta couldn’t judge the reason for her silence. It might have stemmed from discomfort or simply from lack of interest; Marine’s angular face was far from easy to read. Not that she truly cared what might or might not be moving Marine at this moment. Her own mind was too full, and there was scant room for anyone else’s concerns.

  She was beginning to function again as the numbness of initial shock wore off. As yet everything was still confused and disjointed; but a number of starkly bewildering images stood out like beacon lights in dense fog. Prince Osiv. Marriage. Wife. Princess. Imperatrix. Prince Osiv. I still don’t believe this. I don’t, I don’t. Yet it’s true … And overlaying them all was one frustrating question. Why me? I am no one important. My family does not move in imperial circles, and I’ve never so much as set foot at court. Why have they chosen me?

  Father Urss or Mother Beck could have answered her, but she hadn’t had the courage to ask either of them. Marine could also have answered, but Nanta was unaware of that. Prince Osiv. I’ve never even seen him. He’s a stranger. And I am to marry him.

  What did she feel? Confusion swelled anew as Nanta struggled to make some sense of her inner turmoil. Was she thrilled or miserable? Excited or terrified? She had always hoped that one day she would marry. The match would be arranged without reference to herself, and there was a strong probability that she would not meet her future husband more than once or twice before the wedding. One expected that. It was the way the world worked among nobler families, and it usually worked tolerably enough. But to marry the heir to the throne…That was a prospect beyond imagination. So far removed from reality that the idea of its becoming reality made her want to laugh.

  Or cry. Why that? She had no secret paramor, no love of her life; she was not like the tragic, misunderstood heroine of a popular story. She was simply Nanta, who until now had lived her unremarkable life and had her unremarkable ambitions, and who had been content with them.

  Perhaps, she thought, I do still believe that I’m dreaming, and will wake up soon and find myself back in the Academy with nothing more than a day of choir rehearsals before me. She wasn’t dreaming, she knew that; but her situation had so many of the qualities of a dream that it seemed more rational and more comfortable to treat it as one. In time, that would change. Let it bide until then, she thought helplessly. Let it bide. What other choice was there?

  Marine, meanwhile, was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She could no more read Nanta’s face than Nanta could read hers, but she was suffering a sudden and acute attack of conscience, revolving around, as she saw it, one very major omission in today’s events.

  Marine had expected Urss or Beck to make at least some reference to Prince Osiv’s condition, but they had not. From a pragmatic viewpoint Marine could well understand why it was wiser, indeed safer, to keep Nanta in ignorance for a while longer. However, to understand something was not necessarily to like it, and Marine found that kind of pragmatism hard to reconcile with her own fundamental honesty. Nanta was an intelligent girl, and if matters were explained to her properly Marine had no doubt that she would understand her duty and submit to it quietly. There was no need for this subterfuge. But subterfuge was a reflex among politicians, and the higher they rose, the more deeply ingrained the habit seemed to become. Marine could no more change that fact than stop the stars in their courses, and she was not the kind of person even to think of trying. Nonetheless, she believed firmly that if the world could be purged of such deceits, it would be all the better for it.

  They reached the door of the suite, and abruptly a feeling close to panic welled up in Nanta’s stomach. She needed help, advice, explanations; but her only possible confidante now was Sister Marine, and she didn’t think she could bring herself to make the first move in Marine’s direction. However, as the door opened, revealing the oppressive luxury of the room beyond, she made a floundering effort.

  “Sister…”

  Marine looked at her as though surprised to hear her speak. “Yes?”

  “Why have they chosen me?”

  The question was direct enough to bring a sharp, unwanted flush to Marine’s cheeks. For a moment her instinct was to invent a quick and plausible tale to content Nanta, but then she thought: why tangle the skeins still further? It seemed pointless. The truth, or at least an approximation of it, was better.

  “I honestly don’t know, Nanta,” she said. “Decisions such as these are always made by the Exalted Council—and the Imperator himself, of course—and they don’t make us privy to their deliberations.” They entered the outer room and she closed the door before adding, “However, I do know that it was Grand Mother Beck who made the initial recommendation.”

  Nanta digested that for a few moments, but it made no more sense to her than anything else did. At last she said, “What of Prince Osiv? Did he have any say?”

  “You mean that perhaps he has seen you, without your knowing it, and that the choice was his?” Marine couldn’t help but pity Nanta’s naivety. “No, I don’t think that’s at all likely.”

  “Oh.” Nanta cast her eyes down as her small, vague theory was negated. She walked slowly towards her bedroom, then abruptly stopped and looked back at Marine.

  “I’ve never seen the Prince, either.”

  “Few have,” said Marine evenly. “The imperial family don’t show themselves to the common gaze.”

  “Yes, I know. But if I’m to marry him—”

  “Nanta.” Marine interrupted quietly but firmly. “I think you’re becoming a little overwrought.” Her conscience was squirming again, but she had to play her part and not allow sentiment to sway her. “The choice is made, and it isn’t for us to question it or to make difficulties. You should be giving thanks for your good fortune, not quibbling about details.” Then, horribly aware that she was beginning to sound like Father Urss, she modified her tone to something more gentle. “There’s nothing to fear, child. As a royal wife you’ll have every comfort and privilege that the court can bestow—and don’t forget that the future Imperator has many demands on his time. I doubt that you’ll see very much of Prince Osiv at all.”

  She wondered briefly if she had hinted too much by that last comment, but Nanta didn’t seem to find anything amiss. She was staring down at her own hands now, her gaze introverted, and she said, “All I know about the Prince is that he is twenty-seven years old. I’ve heard tell that he has fair hair and green eyes, but I’ve never seen a portrait of him.”

  “Portraits rarely show the truth in my experience, so that’s nothing to regret.” And the few that existed of Prince Osiv, Marine reflected, most certainly didn’t tell the whole story. She moved across the room, smoothing her skirt briskly. “Come along now, Nanta. Have done with speculation and let us turn our minds to practical matters. You heard what Grand Mother said; you’re to have a sound night’s sleep and be ready for a busy day tomorrow. So no more talk, now. I’ll order your supper, and you can prepare for bed.”

  Nanta wanted to argue, but the will for it simply wasn’t there. She moved slowly into her bedchamber, distantly aware of the sound of Marine ringing the servants” bell, and stood for a few moments staring at her window. Someone had come in and closed the curtains during her absence, and, irrationally, it felt like a trespass, an invasion of her privacy. As if she could do nothing for herself. But then, she must expect and accept such things from now on. Nanta had never had any ambitions towards true freedom—the concept simply didn’t apply to girls of her age and station—but the sens
e of near-panic assailed her again as she tried to imagine what her new life would demand of her. Every comfort and privilege that the court can bestow. Every stricture and protocol, too; and all of it among strangers. She didn’t know if she would cope. She didn’t know if she could.

  From the outer room came the sound of Marine’s crisp tones, answered by the softer, deferential voice of the servant who had answered the bell. Nanta shivered, and for a fleeting moment an inner devil asked: What if I should refuse? What then?

  The question, and the spark of rebellion, faded and died without an answer. There was no possibility of refusal. She had already given her consent—that document, which she hadn’t even had the wherewithal to read, had sealed her fate, and she had signed it without a murmur of protest. The thing was done, and no part of it could be changed.

  The same unknown hand that had drawn the curtains had also laid a night robe out on her bed, together with her embroidered surcoat to keep away the cold. Nanta loosed her hair from its pins and began to undress. She did not think she would sleep tonight. But if there was no sleep, at least there could be no dreams.

  Chapter Four

  Preparations for the wedding rapidly began to gather momentum, and they carried Nanta with them like a fallen leaf in a fast current. To the satisfaction of Urss and Beck, the Bride-Prospective proved as docile as anyone could wish. She submitted herself dutifully to long hours of study and rehearsal, stood silently and patiently through back-aching ordeals in the salon of the imperial dresser, sat motionless and rigid while Vyskir’s most noted court painter worked on her pre-nuptial portrait. Her first public appearance passed off flawlessly. Magnificent in a stiff gown and a headdress and veil that hid her face from the vulgar gaze, she was driven by the outer route from the Sanctum to the imperial palace, where in a formal ceremony she was presented to the court. The citizens of the Metropolis gathered along the route in great numbers to glimpse her, and she acknowledged them, as she had been taught, with only a decorous inclination of her head. Even Father Urss could not have asked for more.